


(the honor to be) your obedient servant

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a time, years ago, when he lost his temper: <i>I don’t have your name, I don’t have your title</i>, he shouted, and it was cloaked under the guise of an argument about rank but they both knew what he meant: that he’ll never have Lady Washington’s privilege, that he’ll never be anything more than a dirty little secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(the honor to be) your obedient servant

He feels as though he’s been like this for hours.  
  
Hours in the multiple, or days, even. Yet he has not heard the clock outside Washington’s office chime at all since they began, and so it cannot have been very long at all. _Yet_ it’s unbearable. The tension, the sensation. The silence. The silence might be the worst part of all.  
  
Washington’s had him bent over the desk for so long that his back is starting to ache a little from holding the position. It started with a command: “Strip.” And Hamilton did, knowing what was expected of him, folding his clothes neatly and leaving them on the chair opposite the desk.  
  
And then another single, terse command: “Over the desk.”  
  
He used to wait in trepidation and excitement, bracing himself for the impact, but Washington has not taken to punishing him by force in quite some time. “It grows tiresome,” Washington had sighed the first time Alexander inquired about the downturn in the laying on of hands. Instead, in the years since they first began these liaisons, the man who is now President has grown more comfortable and imaginative in his role as Alexander’s disciplinarian.  
  
He feels as though it’s been hours since Washington ordered him over the desk, nude and exposed for anyone who might walk into his office to see. Not that anyone would, he thinks — the door is locked, it must be, there’s no way that Washington, who thinks of everything, would not think of this. It’s always locked. Alexander has his cheek to the desk, his eyes lightly shut, and can hear only the light scratching of Washington’s quill on paper and the occasional rustle and sigh of a shift in position.  
  
The desk is just large enough to accommodate them both in their separate engagements.  
  
There’s another rustle and shift of a sheaf of papers. Sounds Alexander has grown to know well. He takes a sharp breath as he hears Washington rise from his chair, and opens his eyes a bit, just enough to watch him disappear behind him.  
  
“You’ve been so quiet for me, son,” comes Washington’s voice, and Alexander almost squeaks involuntarily, despite himself, as he feels one slick finger begin to tease his entrance. He feels himself flush all over, his initial arousal coming back to him in an instant as Washington plays with him. The touch is feather-light, barely a hint of pressure behind it, and Alexander wants to whine or cry out, push himself back onto one or two of those thick, handsome fingers. But as he starts to rock his hips experimentally back onto them, Washington pulls his hand back, and Alexander is rewarded with a sharp smack to his ass.  
  
He chokes back a cry of pleasure as the sensation hits him, the dizzying spike of arousal that accompanies the pain. His hips snap forward again as his dick fills out a little more.  
  
Washington notices, because there is nothing that he does not notice.  
  
“Let’s try that again,” he says, an ingratiating warmth coloring his stern voice as he places another broad, flat hand on the small of Alexander’s back, pressing him back down against the desk. Alexander lets him. Washington needn’t exert anything close to the full force of his strength, not that Alexander would be any match for it anyway; he has grown a little weaker, a little less athletic since the glory of their days in the war, but even as Washington has grown older as well, he is no less stately or imposing. Much as they argue and fight amongst each other in private, Alexander innately understands the public’s desire to deify the President. He cuts such an imposing figure that he must seem larger than life to most of the world. But in this private room, between the two of them, he is the perfect size: larger than Alexander, yet warm, fatherly as ever. They fit together like two pieces split to form a whole.  
  
Alexander tries not to whimper as Washington presses down on his back, keeping him firmly in place as he begins to tease his entrance once again. This time the tip of one finger dips just briefly inside, just for a moment, and Alexander bites down on the inside of his cheek to contain his moan. Because he must stay silent, must not move. _Daddy’s orders_.  
  
He hears Washington chuckle, and thinks he must have allowed some sort of whine or groan to escape his mouth after all. But then Washington palms his ass with both wide hands and he hears, “Good boy,” and then he is rewarded with a swipe of Washington’s tongue in his most intimate place. He presses his face to the desk, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to make a sound as his pulse quickens and Washington spreads him open a little further and applies himself to the task, his tongue nimble and talented, making Alexander squirm and melt in his grip. He feels sweat beading on his hairline and along the back of his neck where his hair lies loose and free from its ponytail. He’s certain that his commander can hear his heart beating like a hammer in his chest.  
  
He can’t help himself. He arches his back.  
  
And then Washington is gone. Mouth, hands, all of it vanish at once as he hears the President stand and cross back behind the desk. Alexander opens his eyes, trying not to move or groan in frustration as he looks up at Washington as he sits down heavily, back at his seat.  
  
“You had your orders, son,” Washington says without preamble as he returns to his papers, to his writing. “I asked that you do two things for me, remain perfectly quiet and perfectly still. You knew what the consequences would be.” He sighs. “I admit, after so long, I expect better.”  
  
Alexander is torturously hard, his fingers digging into the rich, dark wood of the desk. He clenches his jaw as another wave of pleasure at the _denial_ , the shame of it, rolls through him. His cock jumps a little and he feels a bead of moisture roll down the tip of it.  
  
The clock chimes seven in the evening. It was five after six when Washington ordered him to strip.  
  
He sets to focusing on his breathing, in and out and in and out, first in counts of five, then seven, then ten. When that fails to settle his tempestuous nature, he allows his mind to drift to matters of work. The address Washington originally called him in here to discuss, a statement of the States’ newly-decided neutrality in regard to the conflict between England and France. He turns over the words in his mind, his hand instinctively clenching as he writes out the statement on the blank white page that is his consciousness: a blank piece of parchment, pure unblemished ecru, where the words burn indelibly bright for just a moment before fading into nothingness as soon as he has them written down. He can see them with his eyes closed, fading away before he can copy them onto the corporeal page, and he mourns them for only a split second, only because he hates redrafting.  
  
He does not know how much time passes in this state. His cock softens more the longer he works over the French conflict, his lips sometimes moving with the words he forms, but then he hears Washington shift or murmur again and the reality of the situation is affirmed to him, and he stiffens again, arching his back, trying to present prettily, like a good boy. It’s a tense back-and-forth until he hears Washington rise again, and before he’s able to prepare himself, there are two oil-slickened fingers dancing around his entrance before they’re pressing inside him, stretching him wide.  
  
“Be still,” Washington cautions, and Alexander heeds him. Tenses all his muscles except for the ones he relaxes, and allows his commander to open him up. It’s slow, slower than he could have thought imaginable. The stretch, the slight burn replaced by an intense feeling of pleasure. His head is spinning with everything he could say, all the words that beg to be said in this moment. He wants to plead, wants to beg for it, for _more, harder, make me feel fuller, Father, give me what I need. Give me what I want, I can't breathe_. But the threat of emptiness hangs over his head like an axe, and instead he says nothing, grinding his molars as Washington opens him up _slowly_.  
  
Washington rarely speaks during these encounters. For a man so eloquent, so adept with the economy of language, never wasting nor unnecessarily conserving a word, his reticence in the heat of the moment speaks volumes. He senses that in these moments, Washington allows himself not to think, but simply to be — a man in control, nothing more, nothing less. In contrast, Alexander’s mind never shuts off — it’s constantly awhirl with possibility, reassessing meaning and risk and opportunity as Washington toys with him. The more selfish and one-sided Washington’s playing with him becomes, the more aroused Alexander feels. It’s a sort of perverse, masochistic waltz, hurtling toward the point of no return in 3/4 time, Washington very much leading the dance. Alexander may as well be in a lady’s ballgown for all the control he has in the moment.  
  
Not that he’d object to that possibility, either. He has always so relished the slide of silk against his skin.  
  
He gasps a little despite himself as he feels the tip of Washington’s cock rub against his entrance. He wills himself not to rock back, not to beg for it, to remain quiet and pliable and obedient for his commander. _Father Father Father_ he chants inside his head, consciously relaxing every muscle in his body, yielding in every way. He feels _so full_. Washington is so enormous. And Washington works himself up to a steady rhythm, the slow drag and thrust of it building up to a gradual in and out with no attention paid to Hamilton himself. He feels like an object, like nothing more than something to be used. He hates himself for how much this makes him stiffen in response.  
  
Washington speeds up, fucking him harder and faster, in the efficient way that communicates that he just wants to be done with it. And certainly enough, after a couple minutes of rough, insistent pounding, he gasps out a ragged _Son, Alexander,_ and Alexander feels him shoot off deep inside him.  
  
And then he’s pulling back out, Alexander painfully hard and just as painfully untouched. He gasps as he waits for Washington to grant him some relief, but instead, Washington simply buttons his breeches and steps back behind the desk, his heavy pace of breathing the only indication that anything has just happened between them.  
  
Alexander wants to scream. He digs his fingers into the papers beneath his hands, where they’ve been knocked apart and spread in his quest to keep a steady grip on the desk. He’s sure he’s wrinkling them, but he pays it no heed as he he groans wordlessly through gritted teeth, his hips rocking fruitlessly and meeting nothing in response.  
  
Washington only sighs in response. “Is that the best you can do?” he asks, and Alexander feels the world spin, feels a dizzying sort of tightness come over his skin as he begins to go a little lightheaded. As the fuzzy edges of the world become crisp again, he’s vaguely aware that Washington has returned to his maps and papers, occasionally sliding one of Alexander’s own hands out of the way.  
  
He feels Washington’s seed begin to trickle out of him as he waits, obediently.  
  
  
He is not sure how long it has been. The clock chimed eight some interminable amount of time ago, and yet he remains in position, with Washington occasionally standing and crossing behind him to trace the rim of his entrance with one finger or wrap a hand around his cock and begin to stroke him off, slow and languid, wide broad hands and torturous strokes that only heighten his arousal instead of relieving it. He feels as though he has been so on edge for so long that it would take only the brush of a finger, the stroke of a tongue, to bring him off entirely.  
  
He’s being so good. The thought creeps in, time after time, when he finds his mind unoccupied by other racing thoughts. He hears Jefferson’s voice, improbably, creep in: _Are you being good for your daddy? You want Daddy to tell you how good you’ve been?_ And the tone mocks him, chills him to the bone because he knows that Jefferson knows all about them, holds all the cards even if he won’t say as much out loud. But the fact remains that yes, he does want that. He wants it more than anything, the praise, the words of longing and love.  
  
There was a time, years ago, when he lost his temper: _I don’t have your name, I don’t have your title_ , he shouted, and it was cloaked under the guise of an argument about rank but they both knew what he meant: that he’ll never have Lady Washington’s privilege, that he’ll never be anything more than a dirty little secret. And it’s hypocritical, admittedly, for him to want more, to desire legitimacy considering all he’s flouted the boundaries of his own marriage. But it rankles and stings him every time he remembers that no matter how hard he tries and works for it, he’ll never have that sheen of legitimacy. That their encounters will always be relegated to these fumbling affairs in offices and homes emptied for the week or the season. That no matter what, the man he calls _Father_ in his rambling liturgies of filth and prayer will never be anything more under the eyes of God and the law.  
  
He feels a hand thread through his hair, lifting his head ever so slightly from the desk, and he groans a little on instinct, opening his eyes and looking back over his shoulder. Washington slowly slides all his hair to the side of his shoulder to take a firm grip on the back of his neck as his other hand drifts to Alexander’s well-fucked entrance. And that grip is what does it — he’s nearly limp against the desk, his cock stiffening again, for the countless-th time this night.  
  
Washington’s hand is so firm and broad, and it always takes him nearly right to the edge. He dimly recalls the first time it happened, the general grabbing him by the nape of the neck like a tomcat he was about to hurl out onto the doorstep when he lost his tongue in public years ago in wartime, and this is a gesture that they always reserve for special moments, when he has earned it. And the knowledge that he has earned it is what sets him off, his legs trembling with the effort of holding back as his entire body tries to thrust into nothingness against the desk.  
  
The hand at his entrance drifts around to wrap around his cock, and it’s overwhelming, but not quite as tight as he’d like, the grip just slack enough to make him keen and mewl openly — because quiet be damned, to hell with the orders, he’s been quiet and obedient and _good for his Daddy_ long enough. He doesn’t dare make the sounds form words, just lets the formless vowels stretch out into thin air as Washington jerks him off, a little firmer with each passing moment, and then —  
  
The hand at the back of his neck drifts around to his throat, pressing down gently. It’s just a hint of pressure, just the faintest promise of Washington’s immense strength, the power he has retained all these years, and yet — it’s enough. The hand at Alexander’s cock is stroking him quick and dirty and the hand at his throat presses just a feather’s weight harder, and suddenly he’s openly begging, pleading out loud with words he didn’t know he still possessed. It’s as if he’s speaking in tongues, like one of these Revival preachers he’s heard talk of but never seen in action; his capacity to make sense of his speech has left him.  
  
Washington is chuckling freely now, barely able to preserve this pretense of control. “Yes,” he says amid low, breathy laughter. “Come for me, son, you’ve been such a good boy—”  
  
And it’s unbearable, it’s beyond the normal intensity, the slow build and denial and build and denial of the last two hours all exploding into stars before his eyes. His release seems to last hours and seconds at the same time, and his heart is still hammering away in his chest.  
  
“Thank you, Father,” he chants again and again as Washington works him through it patiently, “thank you, Father, thank you—”  
  
The hand on his throat falls away and he feels Washington’s hands around his waist, guiding him up, pulling him back onto legs of jelly, around behind the desk and into his lap. He falls back into the chair, spent, fucked-out and spineless.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmurs again, perhaps redundantly, and he feels Washington press a firm kiss, their first that night, to the space between his neck and his shoulder blade. He learned the proper anatomical term for it years ago, when Laurens ( _Laurens_ ) murmured the Latin and English for each as he kissed and bit and licked the tension out of every inch of Alexander’s body in their tent. And yet he’s forgotten it all now, a lifetime later, the matter of the French conflict steadily returning to the blank page of his mind as the itch of unfinished work begins buzzing at his fingertips and the surface of his skin again.  
  
He has work to do. He has so much work to do. 

  
So much.

 


End file.
